Uncle Bernac: A Memory of the Empire

by Arthur Conan Doyle

She seemed startled by this retort of his, and rose as if she would follow him. Then she tossed her head and laughed incredulously.

'I suppose that you have never met your uncle before?' said she, after a few minutes of embarrassed silence.

'Never,' answered I.

'Well, what do you think of him now you have met him?'

Such a question from a daughter about her father filled me with a certain vague horror. I felt that he must be even a worse man than I had taken him for if he had so completely forfeited the loyalty of his own nearest and dearest.

'Your silence is a sufficient answer,' said she, as I hesitated for a reply. 'I do not know how you came to meet him last night, or what passed between you, for we do not share each other's confidences. I think, however, that you have read him aright. Now I have something to ask you. You had a letter from him inviting you to leave England and to come here, had you not?'

'Yes, I had.'

'Did you observe nothing on the outside?'

I thought of those two sinister words which had puzzled me so much.

'What! it was you who warned me not to come?'